


Street(corner) Named Desire

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Prostitution, Trapper's Clydesdale, before Korea, escort!Trapper, male prostitute, piercintyre - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24492688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: Trapper is putting himself through medical school by putting himself on street corners late at night. Which is where he first meets Hawkeye...written for "Male Escort" at Banned Together Bingo. I blacked out my card, so this is an additional fill.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Street(corner) Named Desire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadesofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/gifts).



Trapper stood on the street corner, hip jutting out provocatively, short shorts snug around his ass and cock, and waited impatiently. This was a calculated risk: stand here too long, and the men who liked men would come sniffing around, and Trapper was only willing to pimp his body out to women.

So far.

But medical school was expensive, and for a poor Irish Catholic boy, there weren't a lot of get-cash-quick options, which was unfortunate—but the girls in his high school, the ones he'd stepped out with, had likened his cock to a lot of very flattering things, and that had given Trapper this idea.

Naturally he knew that to be caught at all was Very Bad, but Worse Still would be to catch hell while with another man. Still… There was a dark-haired boy with intense blue eyes—such dramatic coloring, the black hair and the bright blue—and he tended to come around nervously every night Trapper was "working," and hover nearby.

He never picked anybody up, and he never asked Trapper himself for anything, and he seemed out of place—because he didn't have any other reason to be there, that Trapper could tell.

And tonight the boy was loitering across the street again, only a handful of yards away from Trapper himself, biting his thumb and looking distinctly shifty. Trapper sighed; even if _he_ escaped notice, the cops were bound to pick up on how out of place that kid was. Not that the cops wouldn't _also_ take Trapper in, too, so why was he worried about some scrawny teenager?

Trapper paused, glanced up and down the street, and lit a cigarette. It was a bad habit of his to smoke when he was nervous, and the high class, bored society wives of Boston were not biting tonight—the hour was growing late, and he could already see the tricked out sports cars of the fancy men who desired some meat with their intercourse coming down the avenue.

Which was right when the boy crossed the street, visibly screwed up his courage, and trotted forward quickly until he was standing right in front of Trapper—they were of a height, and he could look directly into blue eyes that were equal parts terrified and turned on. This boy… oh shit, Trapper thought, reading that expression, this boy was _going to pick him up_.

"Uh, hey," the kid said, blowing black bangs out of his face. "Hi. Uh, I'm Hawkeye." He was clearly nervous, but had decided to muster up his courage. "Can I, uh, look. I wanna take a test drive, and you're the hottest sports car out here."

This was either the world's worst pick up line, or… the world's worst joke couched as a pick up line. Trapper had the sense that the kid's intellect was sharp, clever and biting, but anxiety had blunted his humor. Still, though. He was cute enough, he was willing enough, and if he could pay, Trapper didn't want to go home empty-handed.

He had to convince himself, though, because this _was_ still another guy. A second cock introduced into the proceedings. Balls and whiskers and hairy legs. The thought didn't make Trapper shudder as much as he would have liked—there was something magnetic about those eyes, something intriguing about him in general, even if he was lanky to go with tall and looked as though he'd survived a bout with polio.

"Twenty bucks for the alley," Trapper said, "and a blowjob."

"C-can I, uh, blow you instead?" Hawkeye said, and Trapper wondered where he'd gotten that name.

"You wanna do me?" Trapper dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his high-heeled boot, then blew out a breath and examined the kid more closely. "It's still twenty bucks, you know?"

"I'll give you thirty if you let me…" he glanced down at the turgid outline of Trapper's dick in his shorts. Which was what made the reality slam down on him: he was getting hard thinking about this kid—Hawkeye—giving him a blowjob.

"Fine," Trapper said, because what difference did it make, somebody's mouth? He'd just pretend it was some pretty girl and get off, and he'd even make an extra ten bucks.

He grabbed the kid's hand and yanked him around the corner. Hawkeye was on his knees so fast Trapper barely had time to blink before Hawkeye'd taken his dick out and applied his mouth.

It was sloppy and uncoordinated to start, Hawkeye apparently innocent in the ways of blowjobs, and he used his tongue and his lips—but also, regrettably, occasionally his teeth, though it didn't actually hurt—to stimulate Trapper's burgeoning erection. Hawkeye licked at him and sucked the head into his mouth, the moist enclosure between his lips feeling decadent as it contracted around Trapper's dick. Trapper felt his hands scrape the bricks behind him even as his own mouth opened.

At his feet, Hawkeye still knelt, enthusiastically applying himself to the task he'd set himself, trailing his tongue along ridges and veins and sometimes just placing open-mouthed kisses on the smoother portions of Trapper's shaft. It really did feel good, whether it was another guy doing it or not, and whether he knew what he was doing or was just learning on the fly—and Trapper definitely suspected that this was, if not his first blowjob, then one of the first. Hawkeye was untalented, and yet he made up for lack of knowledge in how willing he was to part his lips, to suck Trapper down, and to try to cram as much of Trapper's cock in his mouth at one time as he could.

Trapper knew that being Big John according to the girls at his college was true, and this kid was apparently not in the least intimidated by his size—if Trapper had to guess, he'd have said that Hawkeye picked him _because_ of his size, which had always been clearly evident in the indecently tight shorts he wore out tricking.

Trapper's thoughts were becoming jumbled as Hawkeye learned his way around his cock, as he hefted his balls in one hand and used the other to ring his shaft with shaking fingers and squeeze—not too tightly—and he was clearly listening to the moans and other assorted noises Trapper was making, because every time he found a spot Trapper liked, he apparently recorded that in his brain and kept going back to those places.

All of a sudden it was too much; Trapper didn't intend to, but he suddenly had a tight grasp on Hawkeye's hair and he was trying to do… something… but all he could do was ride out the wave as it came barreling towards him, swept him up, and deposited him into a sea of pleasure.

When he opened his eyes, strings of come were dripping from Hawkeye's chin and his eyes were glassy, but satisfied. When Trapper gave him a hand up to his feet, he reached for Hawkeye's belt buckle—only to be rebuffed.

"Don't need to," he said, taking the time to wipe his mouth with his hand and then lick the come from it. "I'm all right." Trapper peeked; there was a damp, uneven splotch over his groin. He decided the better part of valor was not to mention it; Hawkeye had done him in, anyway.

"Hey, you okay?" Trapper asked, because Hawkeye was looking a little… well, damp around the eyes, too. Though when he looked closer, he supposed that could have been from thrusting into his throat while he was coming—Trapper remembered nothing of what transpired _during_ his orgasm, just the way it had felt when it had come over him—like a wrecking ball, it had slammed into his body and mind and taken no prisoners.

"Yeah," Hawkeye said. "Here's your thirty—" he held out some bills "—thanks for letting me, uh, you know."

"You got somebody ya like?" Trapper asked, suddenly curious why this kid—though he was probably of an age with Trapper, really—had sought him out to give _him_ a blowjob, and he thought, or suspected, he knew why.

"Not anymore," Hawkeye replied. "I left him behind in Cr—Maine. I don't think he ever knew how I felt. But…" he trailed off, then very, very obviously looked towards the street. Okay, playtime was over, and apparently Hawkeye had no use for pillow talk. Or any kind of talk.

"Listen," Trapper said, "ya need anythin' else, come see me. I'll always do you, 'kay? I don't usually do men, but I'll make an exception."

"I got it," Hawkeye said, and escaped.

But he came back, and he came; and he came back, and Trapper came; he came back, and they both came; and by the time Trapper graduated medical school, he was entertaining Hawkeye almost every night—and those orgasms were the sweetest of his life. Even the ones given to him by the bored housewives—no matter how pretty—were nothing compared to those.

Little did he know what was in store for him when he received his draft notice, when he shipped off to Korea, when he opened the door to his new tent and was confronted with: the kid he'd lost track of back in Boston, the kid who'd disappeared the day of his graduation; the kid who was standing before him, now a man, as they stared at each other.

"Hi," Hawkeye said, and that was all that really needed to be said. It was understood that, in darkness and hidden corners, what had begun a decade ago would be resumed.

And Trapper was looking forward to it.

END


End file.
